


lower, lowest

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Not between Geralt & Jaskier (obviously), Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26053369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier let out a humorless laugh. “Am I—are you seriously asking that? Do you know how many people have it out for you, Geralt?” he asked, voice growing louder with each word until he was finally shouting, “Too many to count, and I was prepared for that when I befriended you but then you abandoned me and—and I—”He stopped suddenly, biting his bottom lip hard enough Geralt got a whiff of blood, faint but present.“I’m sorry,” he said lamely. “I made a mistake, but I’m—” Geralt paused. “I’m here now.”Jaskier stared at him for a long moment before smiling, all false cheer. “Yes, I suppose you are.” He turned away. “Unfortunately, just a little too late.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 201





	lower, lowest

**Author's Note:**

> i dont usually write controversial stuff, if this could even be called that, as i dont think rape recovery/aftermath fics should be considered such, if tagged carefully, so please tread lightly as this topic is potentially triggering but do know there is no graphic assault in this, the assault is not romanticized/sexualized, and it is solely about the recovery and therapeutic for me 
> 
> i hope yall enjoy it despite the dark themes and look forward to the second chap where jaskier tries to move on, properly, with geralt

Jaskier was used to the beatings, largely a result of his companionship with Geralt, people too cowardly to go after him, or even Yennefer, and so they settle for the next best thing, a weakly human bard. But this—this was new; the press of his body against stone, sharp edges digging into his back, cornered and barely able to breathe.

“Get off me,” he growled, already calculating if he could reach his dagger in time without the other person—a man, ugly and large, too strong for him to fight without a weapon—stopping him. Unlikely, he knew, the way he was pressed so tightly against the wall.

His lute was on the ground just a few feet away, broken to pieces. He was angry, so angry, but he was also— _scared_. He was alone. Geralt had abandoned him on that mountain and now he was paying the price.

Over the years, he had always had Geralt for protection. When he was attacked, or targeted, he would always show up just in time, scaring away the person (or, commonly, person _s_ ), but now he couldn’t depend on that. And he was too fucking weak to take care of himself. Geralt had done the right thing, abandoning him like he had.

He was a liability, nothing more. _Weak_ and _useless_ and—

Jaskier was pressed harder to the wall. He steeled himself for the familiar pain of a fist to the face, or stomach, or groin. Instead he felt a thigh be shoved between his legs and his vision blurred for a second. “What—?”

Suddenly he couldn’t speak; a mouth against his own. Jaskier blinked once before he shoved, hard, against the brick of a chest holding him against the wall, eyes widening as he realized what was happening. But the pain that quickly followed was familiar; a sharp burn to the side of his face that left him speechless, and then the mouth was back and he shoved again, and again, but it was useless, just like him, and—

He barely remembered what happened after that.

When he opened his eyes again, he was still in the alley, half-dressed on the cold ground. He shivered, sitting up and reached up to touch his cheek, wincing at the pain.

Glancing over, he saw his lute and frowned. “Fucking bastard,” he grumbled, standing up on shaky legs and leaning heavily against the wall as he tugged up his trousers, hands just as shaky as his legs. “Fuck,” he cursed to himself, closing his eyes.

Once his head stopped pounding, and the world stopped spinning, he opened his eyes again and took his first step back toward the inn.

He was almost grateful that Geralt wasn’t around to see him like this, even as his heart ached for him.

*

Geralt knew upon first seeing him, just a few months after the mountain, that he wasn’t okay. Jaskier stopped in the middle of the market when he saw him, peering at him with wide, wide eyes, but that wasn’t it, no, he expected that—deserved it, actually, after what he had done.

But what he _hadn’t_ been expecting were the dark bags under his eyes, or the lines around his mouth, making him look impossibly older.

All of that was quickly drowned out by the anger that flashed in his eyes—again, deserving—as he turned away and stomped out of the market. Geralt lingered for a second before following; he walked to the inn without looking back even once, though Geralt was certain he knew he was following. Jaskier was many things but he wasn’t an idiot.

“Jaskier,” he said once they were at the steps. Jaskier took a deep breath, turning around. He looked— _older_ , and _sad_ , and too skinny. He had so much to say and yet every word he knew caught in the back of his throat.

Jaskier looked off to the side. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally.

Geralt supposed he deserved that. “I need to be,” he said, meaning it. “I had to see you.” After the mountain, he had searched for him for months to no avail until _finally_ he had heard his name in a town and followed the trail. Now, he stood in front of him and could hardly recognize him.

“Why?” he asked sharply. “Did you not say enough last time?”

Geralt ignored the pang of guilt in his chest. He was not the victim here. “Jaskier, I—I had to see you. To apologize,” he continued, taking a step forward and he couldn’t have missed it, not in a thousand years, the way Jaskier flinched and took a quick step back, eyes narrowing. Geralt frowned because—okay, he had fucked up on the mountain, certainly, but not enough for _that_ kind of reaction. “Jaskier?” he asked, missing how the name had sounded in his mouth.

Jaskier straightened his shoulders. “Leave, Geralt,” he said, a slight tremor to his voice. There was anger in his eyes, expected, but there were many other emotions clouding his usually bright eyes as well, like fear and embarrassment. Geralt’s hands twitched, wanting to reach for him. He smartly didn’t. “Just— _go_. I don’t want your apology.”

“Are you okay?” he asked selfishly, needing to know.

Jaskier let out a humorless laugh. “Am I—are you seriously _asking_ that? Do you know how many people have it out for you, Geralt?” he asked, voice growing louder with each word until he was finally shouting, “Too many to count, and I was _prepared_ for that when I befriended you but then you _abandoned_ me and—and _I_ —”

He stopped suddenly, biting his bottom lip hard enough Geralt got a whiff of blood, faint but present.

“I’m sorry,” he said lamely. “I made a mistake, but I’m—” Geralt paused. “I’m here now.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment before smiling, all false cheer. “Yes, I suppose you are.” He turned away. “Unfortunately, just a little too late.”

He took a step and Geralt grabbed his arm. There was no missing the way Jaskier flinched, now, like a dog that’d been hit too many times, yanking his arm out of his grip with wild eyes. “Don’t touch me!” he said, upper lip twitching. “ _Don’t_.”

Geralt blinked. “I’m—”

“Just go, Geralt,” he pleaded before turning away and opening the door to the inn, letting it swing shut in his face. Geralt stood there for a long while before returning to Roach. He didn’t leave, not entirely, but he did leave town for the night, sleeping in the nearby forest. After what he had put Jaskier through, it was the least he could do.

He didn’t get much sleep though, the image of Jaskier’s face, wide-eyed and terrified, etched across the back of his eyelids, a constant memory that haunted him all night.

*

In the morning, he found Jaskier at the local tavern, sitting at a table near the back, staring blankly at his bowl of stew. Geralt slid into the chair across from him silently. Jaskier didn’t even look up.

“Are you not going to play?” he asked, and Jaskier simply shook his head, dipping his spoon in the bowl and leaving it. No wonder he had lost weight. Geralt looked off, staring at nothing. He expected Jaskier to say something, eventually, if he waited long enough, but he didn’t. He had never known him to be so silent for so long. Something had happened, beyond the mountain, that much was obvious and yet he was in no position to push for information. “Jaskier, I will go if you really want me to,” he said eventually, meaning it.

He wanted Jaskier back in his life, but not like this.

Jaskier stared down at his stew, eyes unfocused, before taking a deep breath and looking up. “I want…” He hesitated for a long moment. “I want to talk,” he said finally.

Geralt was terrible with words and yet he would talk for hours if it meant earning Jaskier’s forgiveness. “Okay,” he agreed. “Back at the inn?” he suggested, and Jaskier nodded silently, already standing up.

Geralt followed him out of the tavern and to the inn. Jaskier’s room was at the end of the hall; when he opened the door Geralt noticed that the bed looked unused, practically untouched. When had he last slept, he wondered worriedly, wishing he had the right to ask. Hopefully he would earn it back, and soon.

Jaskier pulled out the chair to the desk and sat down. Geralt sat on the very edge of the bed, waiting.

“You left me to the wolves, Geralt,” he said finally. Geralt looked at him despite wanting to do the exact opposite. Jaskier stared at him. He reached down and pulled something—the dagger he had gifted him a few years ago—out of his boot. He tossed it at his feet. “That did nothing to help. I had a target on my back; _your_ target. I was used to it, I thought, until—”

Jaskier stopped, smiling. It was the most unnerving he had ever seen him look.

“I can’t fucking sleep, Geralt,” he continued without finishing his sentence. “I can barely eat. If I close my eyes for more than a second, I can’t fucking _breathe—”_ He laughed bitterly. “And _sex_ is so far off the table I’m not sure when or _if_ I’ll ever be able to—”

He stopped again, closing his eyes. Geralt felt his heart in the back of his throat but beyond that he felt _rage_ unlike anything he had ever felt before, like fire in his veins. “Jaskier, tell me who they are and I’ll—”

 _Kill them_ , he thought, with an ease that was almost terrifying.

Jaskier opened his eyes, dark and red. “I don’t _want_ that,” he said, slow and shaky. “Fuck, Geralt, I just want to _sleep_.” He wanted to be _okay_ again, to not jump at every sound and unexpected touch, but he knew that was asking too much.

“Okay,” he said, wishing he knew what to do. All he could do was watch Jaskier, hoping for some cue.

Jaskier smiled slightly, and for the first time he almost looked like himself, a little lighter around the edges. “If I, uh, sleep, will you stay?”

Geralt couldn’t have turned him away if he wanted to, not that he wanted to. He nodded firmly. “I will,” he said, and the _protect you_ goes unsaid, settling between them. A few minutes later, Jaskier was under the blanket and the room was dark. Geralt stood by the door, leaning against the wall next to it. He had his sword close, prepared for the worst, but the night was silent and still.

All he could hear was Jaskier’s soft snores, and his heart loosened with each one. Even after everything, he trusted him. He closed his eyes and wished he deserved it.

*

Geralt left soon after Jaskier woke up and returned with breakfast for the both of them. He settled on the bed, keeping distance. “You have to eat,” he said, and Jaskier surprisingly didn’t fight him.

After a few minutes of silent eating, Jaskier finally spoke: “I’m not weak,” he said almost angrily.

Geralt looked at him. “No,” he agreed. “You are not.”

Jaskier stared at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, before looking away again and taking a bite of bread, chewing slowly. “I was scared,” he admitted, sounding less angry.

He nodded, not able to look at him any longer. Geralt stared at his hands. “The things I said, I didn’t mean any of it,” he started after a short pause. The bed creaked as Jaskier shifted; he wondered if he was looking at him again. “But the reason behind it… I wasn’t angry at you, Jaskier. I was angry at—everything, but not you.”

“Not much of a difference,” he remarked, and he couldn’t read his voice.

Geralt nodded. “You are unsafe because of me, because of our relationship. You said it yourself: _I_ put that target on your back. I thought you’d be safer if we just—parted ways. For good.”

He felt Jaskier’s eyes on him, now, an undeniable weight. “And look where that got me,” he said bitterly, angry and sharp. Geralt deserved it, he knew, but that made the guilt no less heavy. “If you’d been here, Geralt, that never would’ve happened.”

“You don’t—” he started, but Jaskier was faster:

“I trust you, Geralt,” he interrupted, voice wavering. “Or I _did_. You never let me get hurt.” He paused, shoving his plate away. They both knew that wasn’t true. “Not beyond repair, at least,” he added, quieter and just _sad_.

Geralt had never wanted to protect him more, and yet he had been too late. He looked up and over, swallowing around needles. “You are not beyond repair,” he said, a little stiff and out of his element but _genuine_. He would never believe Jaskier was beyond repair. He was frankly the bravest person he had ever met, if only he had the words to say it. “You are not a _thing_ , Jaskier. You’re human, and humans are resilient. You will heal.”

Jaskier lifted his head, and his eyes were wide and wet and, fuck, Geralt just wanted to _fix_ it. Take the pain from him.

“That’s—the nicest thing I think I’ve ever heard you say about humans,” he said with a bit of a laugh.

Geralt smiled, just the tiniest quirk of his mouth. “Not just any human,” he replied. “You.”

He wish he could’ve said he was surprised when Jaskier let out a sudden sob and buried his face in his hands. Geralt sat, silent and stiff, wanting to help but not knowing how, especially since he was scared to touch him. He never had been good at these things. Finally Jaskier stuttered, “Fucking _hug_ me, you bastard,” through his sobs and Geralt startled, accidentally kicking one of their plates off the bed. He didn’t care; he scooted over and wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s shaking shoulders. He tensed for a few seconds before relaxing, leaning against him.

They sat like that for a long time, not saying anything. Finally Jaskier settled down enough to say: “Stay with me, please,” he pleaded, staring at him with wide eyes, eyelashes still wet from all his crying. Geralt’s arm tightened around him, instinctively. Thankfully Jaskier didn’t seem too spooked by it, not beyond a quick shudder.

“You might be safer if I’m not here,” he said, though he was believing it less and less the more he said it.

If he had been here, earlier, he could’ve protected Jaskier, but would he had been targeted at all if not for him? He would never know, not if he didn’t hunt the bastard down and carve his fucking eyes out—Jaskier’s fingertips lightly skimmed his jaw, an unexpected touch that pulled him out of his thought, rage quickly subsiding.

“I don’t care,” he said, voice steady even as his chin quivered with each word. “Geralt, _stay_.”

And he knew this was it—the moment that would define the rest of their relationship. If he walked out, he could never return. He wanted to do the right thing, and yet he was too selfish to leave, especially with the way Jaskier was looking at him, like he _needed_ this. Needed _him_. After all he had been through, this was the least he could give him.

“I’ll stay,” he said, voice a little rough. Then: “I’ll protect you, Jaskier.” Jaskier almost smiled, bottom lip trembling with the effort.

“I can protect myself,” he said after a long moment, even though history seemed to disagree. Geralt didn’t say that, of course. Jaskier lifted his head, chin steady and eyes a little clearer. “I want you here as a _friend_ , not a protector.”

Geralt nodded. “I don’t think I’m incapable of doing both,” he said before he could think better of it.

Jaskier blinked once before he let out a sudden laugh—genuine and shameless—that made Geralt’s heart flip; he sounded like _himself_ , finally, like he had never been hurt while he was gone. He knew it wouldn’t last, that the joyful sparkle in Jaskier’s eyes, would be gone soon but it was an improvement, no matter all that.

“I suppose you’re right,” he conceded, reaching for one of his hands. He slowly touched it, like he was afraid to. He didn’t slot their fingers or anything like that, just placed their hands together in the same pile, like he needed the touch.

Neither of them said anything after that, not for hours, just sat silently together until Jaskier’s stomach growled and he flushed, pulling his hand back and glancing at his mostly-untouched food and the shattered plate on the ground. Geralt grimaced. “Reckon we’ll have to pay for that?” he asked, and—fuck, Jaskier laughed again, eyes crinkling.

“Probably,” he sighed, “unless we make a run for it.”

He lifted his gaze, smiling, and Geralt recognized a challenge when he saw it. He also knew what Jaskier was feeling; he had been there many times. A place could never truly be cleansed of the memories that haunted it. “Where would you like to go?”

Jaskier was silent for a long few seconds, looking thoughtfully at the wall. “If I say the coast, will you break my heart and run off again?”

Geralt ignored the pang of guilt, knowing that wasn’t what Jaskier was aiming for. No, he was asking a genuine question and he deserved it. He took a deep breath and reached for Jaskier’s hand again, gently taking his wrist and squeezing.

“I would like that,” he said, speaking around the lump in his throat. “Going to the coast. With you.”

Jaskier smiled, a little shaky. “Okay,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a promise.

Geralt knew this was far from the end of it, of _all_ of it. He still needed to prove himself to Jaskier, and Jaskier still needed time to heal, but he hoped the coast would provide exactly that for him. For both of them. A quiet place to just— _exist_ , safe and together. There was only one way to find out.

“I’ll grab us some food,” he said, and Jaskier blushed again.

“Right, well.” Jaskier turned away. “I’ll start packing. We can leave after lunch.”

Geralt stood up, feeling the—lightest he had in months, and strangely guilty for it, considering how he had gotten there. But now wasn’t the time for all that. They had things to do. “Sounds like a plan,” he said on his way to the door, and Jaskier’s soft smile was all he needed to see to think maybe, just maybe, he was doing the right thing.


End file.
